In the heart of Lahore, where the sunsets bleed into the smog and the call to prayer mingles with the blare of rickshaw horns, there exists a service not listed in any directory. It is known only through hushed tones and encrypted messages, referred to by its clients as the “Satisfaction Escort Service.” But the name is a misnomer, a clumsy label for something far more profound.
Its proprietor and sole operator is a man named Kamran. He is not a pimp. He is an architect of moments, a curator of contentment.
His office is a quiet corner table at Café Zoya, the scent of roasted coffee beans and cardamom his perpetual perfume. Clients don’t find him; he finds them. He observes the subtle tells of urban despair: the executive with a perfectly knotted tie and eyes screaming of emptiness, the wealthy socialite whose laughter is a little too sharp, a little too hollow.
One evening, a man named Saqib slid into the chair opposite him. His expensive watch gleamed under the soft light, but his hands trembled slightly. He spoke of a void, a numbness that his success, his car, his sprawling Defence home could not fill. He used the common phrase, the one he’d heard whispered in his club: “I need an escort. For satisfaction.”
Kamran sipped his coffee, his eyes holding a depth that seemed to absorb the chaos of the city outside. “An escort implies you wish to be taken somewhere,” he said, his voice a low, calm ripple. “But you are already lost. You do not need a companion for the night. You need a guide back to yourself.”
This was Kamran’s service. He didn’t provide people; he provided experiences, meticulously crafted to recalibrate a soul.
